How could my piece possibly relate to writing? Easy, it is life. And even when writing fiction, the roots of reality take hold and form the story.

I was raised a Catholic, my children were raised in the church, but I no longer attend mass. I was frustrated, then sickened as I sat on Sunday morning listening to discussions I could not challenge. Being told statements that were not true, or not researched. Making no sense to what I knew to be the truth.

I once found comfort in the presence of the church. The physical building offered peace. Even the smell of the church, in quiet moments of solitude, I found solace. Now, I question this source of salvation I once held dear. Wondering where the truth ends and the lies begin.

My faltering began with the first exposure of child abuse in this area of Pennsylvania, by priests. I could not wrap my mind around such an announcement. I realized that I was expected to confess my sins to someone, who potentially, had committed acts worse than I could imagine. When the Philadelphia Inquirer published their first article about these unspeakable acts by priests from the pulpit we were told not to read the article. As it turns out, this heinous crime was being committed by thousands of priest all over the country, then revealed that this practice was committed by priests all over the world.

I know that if I had committed these acts, I would have been jailed. When released put on Megan’s List, and my life ruined. Yet when the holy commit these crimes, they are transferred to a new parish where they could continue these unholy acts.

During one mass after the revelation of these crimes, I listened to the celebrant tell us that pedophilia was a disease. I would say a disease that should have been dealt with before too many innocent lives were ruined. In reply, I would ask this question, “Does the church consider homosexuality a disease?” For most of these acts come under that definition. Now every time the church I once attended plants small white crosses in the soil representing the thousands of children aborted, I wish they would also plant little black crosses to represent the thousands of children, living children, whose lives have been damaged by those they pictured as the holiest of holy.

I am sickened by an institution I once held dear. I did not write this article gain attention, but rather, to explore a past my life once held important, but now causes nothing but confusion.